Agatha Raisin and the Quiche of Death ar-1 Read online

  "He's always threatening people and he thinks you're a nosy old tart.

  Still, if you don't want to know what went on at Ancombe ... "

  She began to move away.

  "Wait," said Agatha. "What can you tell me?"

  Mrs. Cartwright's dark eyes rested greedily on Agatha's handbag.

  Agatha clicked it open and took out her wallet. "Ten if I think it's worth it."

  Mrs. Cartwright leaned forward. "The dog competition's always won by a Scottie."

  "So?"

  "And the woman who shows the Scotties is Barbara James from Combe Farm.

  At the inquest her were, and crying fit to bust."

  "Are you saying ... "

  "Our Reg had to have a bit before he would favour someone year in and year out."

  Agatha handed over ten pounds. She studied her programme. The dog judging was due to begin in an arena near the tent. When she looked up from her programme, Mrs. Cartwright had gone.

  Agatha sat on a bench just outside the roped-off arena. She opened her programme again. The Best of Breed competition was to be judged by a Lady Waverton. She looked up. A stout woman in tweeds and a deerstalker was sitting on a shooting-stick, her large tweed-encased bottom hanging down on either side of it, studying the dogs as they were paraded past her. A fresh-faced woman of about thirty-five with curly brown hair and rosy cheeks was walking a Scottish terrier past Lady Waverton. Must be Barbara James, thought Agatha.

  It was all so boring, Agatha felt quite glassy-eyed. How nervous and pleading the contestants looked, like parents at prize-giving. Lady Waverton wrote something down on a piece of paper and a messenger ran with it to a platform, where a man seated on a chair was holding a microphone. "Attention, please," said the man. The awards for Best of Breed are as follows. Third place, Mr. J.G. Feathers for his Sealyham, Pride of Moreton. Second, Mrs. Comley, for her otter hound, Jamesy Bright Eyes. And the first is ... "

  Barbara James picked up her Scottie and cuddled it and looked expectantly towards the two local newspaper photographers. "The first prize goes to Miss. Sally Gentle for her poodle, Bubbles Daventry of the Fosse."

  Miss. Sally Gentle looked remarkably like her dog, having curly white hair dressed in bows. Barbara James strode from the arena, her face dark with fury.

  Agatha rose to her feet and followed her. Barbara went straight to the beer tent. Agatha hovered in the background until the disappointed competitor had got herself a pint of beer. Agatha detested beer but she gamely ordered a half pint and joined Barbara at one of the rickety tables that were set about the beer tent.

  Agatha affected surprise. "Why, it's Miss. James," she cried. She leaned forward and patted the Scottie, who nipped her hand. "Playful, isn't he?" said Agatha, casting a look of loathing at the dog. "Such a good head. I was sure he would win."

  "It's the first time in six years I've lost," said Barbara. She stretched her jodhpur red legs moodily out in front of her and stared at her toe-caps.

  Agatha fetched up a sigh. "Poor Mr. Cummings-Browne."

  "Reg knew a good dog when he saw one," said Barbara. "Here, go on.

  Walkies." She put the dog down. It strolled over to the entrance to the tent and lifted its leg against a rubbish bin. "Did you know Reg?"

  "Only slightly," said Agatha. "I had dinner with the Cummings-Brownes shortly before he died."

  "It should never have happened," said Barbara. "That's the trouble with these Cotswold villages. Too many people from the cities coming to settle. Do you know how he died? Some bitch of a woman called Raisin bought a quiche and tried to pass it off at the competition as her own."

  Agatha opened her mouth to admit she was that Mrs. Raisin when it started to rain again, suddenly, as if someone had switched on a tap.

  It was a long walk to where she had parked her car. A chill wind blew into the tent.

  "Terrible," said Agatha feebly. "Did you know Mr. Cummings-Browne well?"

  "We were very good friends. Always good for a laugh, was Reg."

  "Have you entered anything in the home-baking competition?" asked Agatha.

  Barbara's blue eyes were suddenly suspicious. "Why should I?"

  "Most of the ladies seem very talented at these shows."

  "I can't bake, but I know a good dog. Dammit, I should have won. What qualifications does this Lady Muck have for judging a dog show? I'll tell you ... none. The organizers want a judge and so they ask any fool with a title. She couldn't even judge her own arse."

  As Barbara picked up her beer tankard, Agatha noticed the woman's rippling muscles and decided to retreat.

  But at that moment, Ella Cartwright looked into the beer tent, saw Agatha and called out, "Enjoying yourself, Mrs. Raisin?"

  Barbara slowly put down her tankard. "You!" she hissed. She lunged across the table, her hands reaching for Agatha's throat.

  Agatha leaped backwards, knocking her flimsy canvas-and-tubular-steel seat over. "Now, don't get excited," she said weakly.

  But Barbara leaped on her and seized her by the throat. Agatha was dimly aware of the grinning faces of the drinkers in the tent. She got her knee into Barbara's stomach and pushed with all her strength.

  Barbara staggered back but then came at her again. She was blocking the way out. Agatha fled behind the serving counter, screaming for help while the men laughed and cheered. She seized a large kitchen knife and held it in front of her. "Get away," she said breathlessly.

  "Murderer!" shrieked Barbara but she backed off. Then there came a blinding flash and the click of a camera. One of the local photographers had just snapped Agatha brandishing the kitchen knife.

  Still holding the knife, Agatha edged around to the exit. "Don't come near me again or I'll kill you!" shouted Barbara.

  Agatha dropped the knife outside the tent and ran. Once in the safety of her car and with the doors locked, she sat panting. She thrust the key in the ignition and then paused, dismay flooding her. That photograph! She could already see it in her mind's eye on the front of some local paper. What if the London papers picked it up? Oh, God.

  She was going to have to get that film.

  She felt shaken and tired as she reluctantly climbed out again and trekked across the rain-sodden field.

  Keeping a sharp eye out for Barbara James, she threaded her way through the booths selling old books, country clothes, dried flowers, local pottery, and, as usual, home-baking. In addition to the usual stands, there was one selling local country wines. The photographer was standing there with a reporter sampling elderberry wine. Agatha's heart beat hard. His camera case was on the ground at his feet, but the camera which had taken the photo of her was still around his neck.

  Agatha backed off in case he should see her. He stood there, sampling wine for a long time until the terrier racing was announced. He said something to the reporter and they headed off to the arena. Agatha followed them and waited until they were in the arena. She retreated to a stand and bought herself a waxed coat and a rain-hat. The rain was still drumming down. It was going to be a long day. The terrier racing was followed by show jumping. Agatha lurked at the edge of the thinning crowd, but feeling that the hat and coat she had just put on disguised her somewhat.

  At the end of the show jumping, the rain stopped again and a chill yellow sunlight flooded the fair. Heart beating hard, Agatha saw the photographer wind the film from his camera, pop it in his case, and then reload with another. Slowly she took off her coat. The photographer and reporter headed out of the arena and back to the local wine stand. Try the birch wine," the woman serving was urging them as Agatha crept closer. She dropped her coat over the camera case, mumbled something and bent and seized the handle of the camera case and lifted it up and scurried off round the back of a tent. She opened the case and stared down in dismay at all the rolls of film. Too bad. She took them all out after putting on her coat again so that she could stuff the rolls of film into her pocket.

  She heard a faint yell of "Police!" and hurried off, leaving the
camera case on the ground. She felt sure that the woman serving the wine had not noticed her and the photographer and reporter had not even turned round. She felt lucky in that they were not from a national paper, otherwise they would have concentrated on her and Barbara James and would have referred back to the quiche poisoning. But local photographers and reporters knew that their job at these fairs was to get as many faces and prize-winners on their pages as possible so as to boost circulation. But if the picture of her brandishing a knife in the beer tent had turned out well, she knew they would use it, along, no doubt, with quotes from the enraged Barbara James.

  She was just driving out of the car-park when a policeman flagged her down. Agatha let down the window and looked at him nervously. "A photographer has had his camera case stolen," said the policeman. "Did you notice anything suspicious?" He peered into the car, his eyes darting this way and that. Agatha was painfully conscious of her coat pockets bulging with film. "No," she said. "What a terrible thing to happen."

  There came a faint cry of "We've found it." The police man straightened up. That's that," he said with a grin. These photographers are always drinking too much. Probably just forgot where he left it."

  He stood back. Agatha let in the clutch and drove off. She did not once relax until she was home and had lit a large fire. When it was blazing, she tipped all the rolls of film on to it and watched them burn merrily. Then she heard a car drawing up.

  She looked out of the window. Barbara James!

  Agatha dived behind the sofa and lay there, trembling. The knocking at the door, at first mild, became a fusillade of knocks and kicks. Agatha let out a whimper. Then there was silence. She was just about to get up when something struck her living-room window and she crouched down again. She heard what she hoped was Barbara's car driving off. Still she waited.

  After ten minutes, she got up slowly. She looked at the window. Brown excrement was stuck to it, along with wisps of kitchen paper. Barbara must have thrown a wrapper full of the stuff.

  She went through to the kitchen and got a bucket of water and took it outside and threw it at the window, returning to get more water until the window was clean. She was going back inside when she saw Mrs. Barr standing at her garden gate, watching her, her pale eyes alight with malice.

  Her rumbling stomach reminded Agatha that she had not eaten. But she did not have the courage to go out again. At least she had bread and butter. She made herself some toast.

  The phone rang shrilly. She approached it and gingerly picked up the receiver. "Hello," came Roy's mincing voice. That you, Aggie?" "Yes," said Agatha, weak with relief. "How are you?"

  "Bit fed up."

  "How's Steve?"

  Haven't seen him. Gone all moody on me."

  Buy him a book on village customs. That'll make his eyes light up."

  The only way to make that one's eyes light up," said Steve waspishly 'is to shine a torch in his ear. I've been given the Tolly Baby Food account."

  Congratulations."

  On what?" Roy's voice was shrill. "Baby food's not my scene, ducky.

  They're doing it deliberately. Hoping I'll fail. Mre your line."

  "Wait a bit. Isn't Tolly Baby Food the stuff that some maniac's been putting glass in and then blackmailing the

  They've arrested someone, but now Tolly wants to restore their image."

  Try going green," suggested Agatha. "Suggest to the advertising people a line of healthy baby food, no additlves, and with a special safety cap. Get a cartoon figure to Pr rrvote it. Throw a press party to show off the new varuial-proof top. "Only Tolly Baby Food keeps baby safe," that sort of thing. And don't drink yourself. Take any j utnalist who has a baby out for lunch separately."

  They don't have babies," complained Roy. "They give birth to bile."

  There are a few fertile ones." Agatha searched her memory" There Jean Hammond, she's got a baby, and Jeffrey Corbie's wife has just had one.

  You'll find out more if you try. Anyway, women journalists feel obliged to write about babies to show they're normal. They have to keep trying to identify with the housewives they secretly despise you know Jill Stamp who's always rambling on her godson? Hasn't got one.

  All part of the "I Wish you were doing it," said Roy. "It was fun working for you, Aggie. How's things in Rural Land?" Agatha hesitated and then said, "Fine."

  This was greeted by a long silence. It suddenly struck Agatha with some amazement that Roy might possibly want an invitation.

  "You know all that tat in my living-room?"

  "What, the fake horse brasses and things?"

  "Yes, I'm auctioning them all off in the name of charity. On the tenth of June, a Saturday. Like to come down and see me in action?"

  "Love to."

  "All right. I'll meet the train on Friday evening, on the ninth.

  Wonder you can bear to leave London."

  "London is a sink," said Roy bitterly.

  "Oh, God, there's a car outside," yelped Agatha. She looked out of the window. "It's all right, it's only the police."

  "What have you been up to?"

  "I'll tell you when I see you. Bye."

  Agatha answered the door to Bill Wong. "Now what?" she asked. "Or is this just a friendly call?"

  "Not quite." He followed her into the kitchen and sat down at the table.

  "You were at the Ancombe Fair, I gather," said Bill.

  "So?"

  "You were seen in the beer tent waving a knife at Miss. Barbara James."

  "Self-defence. The woman tried to strangle me."

  "Why?"

  "Because I believe she had been having an affair with Cummings-Browne and she learned my name and saw red."

  He flipped open a small notebook and consulted it. "Photographer Ben Birkin of the Cotswold Courier snapped a picture and lo and behold, his camera case was snatched. No cameras taken but all the rolls of film." "Odd," said Agatha. "Coffee?"

  "Yes, please. Then I had a call from Fred Griggs, your local bobby. He had a report that a woman answering to Barbara James's description threw shit at your windows." "She's mad," said Agatha, thumping a cup of instant coffee in front of Bill. "Quite mad. And you still claim the death of Cummings-Browne was an accident. I regret that scene in the beer tent. I'm glad that photographer lost his film. I've suffered enough without having my photo on the front of some local rag. Oh, God, I suppose they'll run the story even if they don't have the picture to go with it."

  He looked at her speculatively. "You are a very lucky woman. The editor was so furious with Ben Birkin that he didn't want to know about two women fighting in the beer tent. Furthermore, it so happens that John James, Barbara's father, owns shares in the company which owns the newspaper. The editor's only interested in cramming as many names and pictures of the locals into his paper as he can. Luckily, there were several amateur photographers at the fair and Bill was able to buy their film. Do you wish to charge Barbara James with assault or with throwing what possibly was dog-do at your window?"

  Agatha shuddered. "I never want to see that woman again. No."

  I've been making more inquiries about Cummings-Browne," said Bill.

  "Seems he was quite a Lothario. You wouldn't think it to look at him, would you? Pointy head and jug ears. Oh, I've found the identity of the woman who was glaring at you at Warwick Castle."

  "Who is she?"

  "Miss. Maria Borrow, spinster of the parish, not this parish, Upper Cockburn."

  "And was she having an affair with Cummings-Browne?"

  "Seems hardly believable. Retired schoolteacher. Gone a bit batty.

  Taken up witchcraft. Sixty-two."

  "Oh, well, sixty-two. I mean, even Cummings-Browne could hardly'

  "But for the past three years she has won the jam-making competition at Upper Cockburn, and Mr. Cummings-Browne was the judge. Now don't go near her. Let well alone, Mrs. Raisin. Settle down and enjoy your retirement."

  He rose to his feet, but instead of going to the front door he ve
ered into the living-room and stood looking at the fire. He picked up the long brass poker and shifted the blazing wood. Little black metal film spools rattled through the fire-basket and on to the hearth.

  "Yes, you are very lucky, Mrs. Raisin," said Bill. "I happen to detest Ben Birkin." "Why?" asked Agatha.

  "I was having a mild flirtation with a married lady and I was giving her a cuddle behind the abbey in Mircester. Ben took a photograph and it was published with the caption: "Safe in the Arms of the Law". Her husband called on me and I had a job to talk my way out of that one."

  Agatha rallied. "I'm not quite sure what you are getting at. I found a pile of old unused film in my luggage and I was burning it."

  Bill shook his head in mock amazement. "One would think all your years in public relations would have taught you how to lie better. Mind your own business in future, Agatha Raisin, and leave any investigation to the law."

  The squally rain disappeared and clear blue skies shone over the Cotswolds. Agatha, shaken by the fight with Barbara James, put her bicycle in her car and went off to drive around the Cotswolds, occasionally stopping at some quiet lane to change over to her bicycle.

  Huge festoons of wisteria hung over cottage doors, hawthorn blossoms fell in snowy drifts beside the road, the golden stone of houses glowed in the warm sun and London seemed very far away.

  At Chipping Campden, she forgot her determination to slim and ate steak and kidney pie in the antique cosiness of the Eight Bells before sauntering down the main street of the village with its green verges and houses of golden stone with gables, tall chimneys, archways, pediments, pillars, mullioned or sash windows, and big flat stone steps. Despite the inevitable groups of tourists, it had a serene, retiring air. Full of steak and kidney pie, Agatha began to feel a little sense of peace. In the middle stood the Market Hall of 1627 with its short strong pillars throwing black shadows on to the road.

  Life could be easy. All she had to do was to forget about Cummings-Browne's death.

  During the next few days, the sun continued to shine and Agatha continued to tour about, occasionally cycling, occasionally walking, returning every evening with a new feeling of health and well-being. It was with some trepidation that she remembered she was to accompany the Carsely ladies to Mircester.